Centripetal

Day, night, sun, moon, success, failure.
The cycle is inexorable, almost gravitational. Every victorious high is prelude to a plummet.

In celebrating the achievement of real progress, I have carelessly lost focus and given hard fought ground. I have whirled sharply about with a queasy centripetal tug, and have lost my bearings.
Straightening up seems to get harder and harder when I fail to fly right.

I am having trouble with the simplest of disciplines. Eating right, sleeping well, finishing work, these are somehow elusive acts. Every morning has welcomed me with a sparkling new opportunity, and by noon has bid farewell with a sardonic quip. Folly has become comfortable to the point where I am nervous when not shiftless, as if accomplishment should be precarious and worrisome.

I know what I need to do, but in this dizzy state I am swerving to hit landmines. I am looking for trouble and wallowing in disgust when it finds me. I have got to get off this carousel.

Here goes nothing.

Hoofprints

A few blurry, unremarkable weeks have passed with a singular focus. I have had no pause to reflect since my previous post, and that is indicative of progress. Neither have I entertained much distraction. I have been a Clydesdale, blinkered and solidly set to purpose. One clop in front of the next will get me there eventually.

The trick is to lose perspective.

Perspective has always been my thing, though. I am the guy who gleans hope out of a dark situation. I am the stolid voice of reason. I don't sweat the small stuff. I have a stiff upper lip, and my chin is typically up. But all this staring at the horizon creates a perilous posture for progress.

A myopic view of the world pairs well with an empty stomach, it seems. It prevents the entertainment of questions like "why" and "why not". There is no rationalization, there is the next step. Drudgery allows little discourse, and so disarms the wit of its power to self-sabotage.

So until I have better footing, I shall be hanging my head and soldiering on. The time to regain a wider outlook will come, but today is for toil.

Back to it.

Little Things

The morning is unseasonably brisk. A chill overnight wind cut through the latent September heat, leaving my bed particularly cozy. I had a hard time getting up today.

It is Wednesday, and I have decided to abandon ambition. Grand goals have been thwarted by petty lapses, and the week grows too old to nurture big plans. I need to put one sure foot in front of the other. I need to attend to the little things. Aim small, miss small.

The bane of my self-improvement has been an unholy confluence of gluttony and sloth. I take my ease through eating, and I eat what is easy. Forsaking other well intended paths, I must first succeed in the simple task of eating purposefully. I must not cheat.

My plan is to set aside reason and perspective, embracing the pedantry of accounting for every bite. I hate the tedium. It is antipodal to my nature, which is a validation of sorts.

Today cannot be just another day. It is time to get over the hump. Let's see if I can land this one tiny step.

Another day

My days are politicians. They start hopeful and resolute. They set out to be different; to make a difference. They abound with promises that they rely on me to fulfill.

Tuesday yanked me out of bed with the winning grin of a P.E. coach eager to inflict pain. Get up. You can do it. Read your bible. Center your thoughts. Go for a walk. Start your day, and get ready to do great things.

I read my bible on the throne. My thoughts wandered. I meant to go for a walk. I made a healthy breakfast of eggs and veggie sausage. That's about as good as it got.

I have developed a habit of eschewing work in the mornings. A talent really, more than a habit - a highly developed aptitude born of relentless practice. I take calls and attend meetings and triage emergencies of course, but I actually do very little. I produce almost nothing before lunch. It's rather remarkable. Even when I am sincere in my efforts, I manage to be busy without accomplishing anything real.

Now that I think on it, just about every attempt I make at anything constructive meets with the same fate. I experience, ironically, a kind of treadmill effect where hours spit from my heels without propelling me forward in the least. It is an exhausting sort of torpidity

Thus the morning slipped away. My excellent breakfast left me starving by 10, so I ate what I wanted. I had a bowl of Lucky Charms - a minor slip. One slip lends momentum to the next, however. In sharp contrast to my productivity problem, indulgences compound with surprisingly little effort. Famished by noon from the empty carbs, I discarded any notion of discipline and tore through the fridge like a racoon.

Another day, same as the last. Distinct merely in the flavors and degrees of its failures. Lazy, wayward, and distent. But I have to admit, I really like what I am hearing from tomorrow.